The Riddle Of The Third Mile by Colin Dexter Read Free Book Online Page B

the OUDS’ production of Doctor Faustus at the New Theatre, only some fifty yards or so away, in Beaumont Street. Morse had finally managed to order a pint of beer at the crowded bar when he felt a lightly laid hand upon his shoulder -and turned round to find a pale face, the blonde hair high upswept, the hazel eyes looking into his with an air of pleading diffidence.
    ‘Have you just ordered?’
    ‘Yes-I’ll soon be out of your way.’
    ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you, ordering a drink for me as well?’
    ‘Pleasure!’
    Two gins and tonics, please.’ She pushed a pound note into his hand-and was gone.
    She was seated in a far corner of the bar, next to a dark-haired dowdy-looking young woman; and Morse, after negotiating his way slowly through the throng, carefully placed the drinks on the table.
    ‘You didn’t mind, did you?’
    It was the blonde who had spoken, looking up at him with widely innocent eyes; and Morse found himself looking at her keenly – noting her small and thinly nostrilled nose, noting the tiny dimples in her cheeks, and the lips that parted (almost mischievously now) over the rather large but geometrically regular teeth.
    ‘Course not! It’s a bit of a squash in here, isn’t it?’
    ‘You enjoying the play?’
    ‘Yes. Are you?’
    ‘Oh yes! I’m a great Marlowe fan. So’s Sheila, here. Er-I’m sorry. Perhaps you don’t know each other?’
    ‘I don’t know you, either!’ said Morse.
    ‘There you are! What did I tell you?’ It was the dark girl who had taken up the conversation. She smiled at Morse: ‘Wendy here said she recognized you. She says you live next door to her.’
    ‘Really?’ Morse stood there, gaping ineffectually.
    A bell sounded in the bar, signalling the start of the last act; and Morse, calling upon all his courage, asked the two girls if they might perhaps like to have a drink with him after the performance.
    ‘Why not?’ It was the saturnine Sheila who had answered. ‘We’d love to, Wendy, wouldn’t we!’
    It was agreed that the trio should meet up again in the cocktail-bar of the Randolph, a stone’s throw away, just along the street.
    For Morse, the last act seemed to drag its slow length interminably along, and he left the theatre well before the end. The name “Wendy” was re-echoing through his mind as once the woods had welcomed “Amaryllis”. With the bar virtually deserted, he sat and waited expectantly. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. The bar was filling up now, and twice, with some embarrassment, Morse had assured other customers that, yes, there was someone sitting in each of the empty seats at his table.
    She came at last-Sheila, that is-looking around for him, coming across, and accepting his offer of a drink.
    ‘What will-er- Wendy have?’
    ‘She won’t be coming, I’m afraid. She says she’s sorry but she suddenly remembered-’
    But Morse was no longer listening, for now the night seemed drear and desolate. He bought the girl a second drink; then a third. She left at ten-thirty to catch her bus, and Morse watched with relief as she waved half-heartedly to him from the bar entrance.
    It was trying to snow as Morse walked slowly back to St John Street, but he stopped where he knew he would stop. On the right of the door of Number 22, he saw four names, typed and slotted into folders, a plastic bell-push beside each one of them. The first name was ‘Miss W. Spencer (Top Floor)’, but no light shone at the highest window, and Morse was soon climbing the stairs to his cold bed-sitter.
    For the next three days he spent much of the time hanging about in the vicinity of St John Street, missing lectures, missing meals, and missing, too, any sight of the woman he was aching to see once more. Had she been called away? Was she ill? The whole gamut of tragic forebodings presented itself to his mind as he frittered away his hours and his energies in fruitless and futile imaginings. On the fourth evening he walked over to the Randolph,